


A place to stay

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction
Genre: AU, M/M, Nouis, a little ooc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:14:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry just shrugs and Niall laughs, a little loud but somehow just enough to rid the air of the awkward edge it was previously holding. And Louis gets the feeling that introductions are over, and the boy standing in front of him is his new flatmate, and this might not be as bad as he was making it out to be. </p>
<p>But Louis remembers his boss’s words as Niall sets up in his new room and Harry waves them off, promises to catch up soon. And of course, <em>of course</em>, this is going to be bad. It was bad the moment Harry opened his mouth at the pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Office

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this story out of my head.

The repetitive ticking of the clock matches the boss’s pacing footsteps, the racing of Louis’s own heart. He stands with his back straight, hands clasped tightly behind him. Two men either side of him, pressing into his shoulders, his space. 

The walls are painted red, which seems so wildly appropriate and inappropriate at the same time. The desk at the end of the room, to Louis’s right, is large, profoundly bold, carved from sleek mahogany and neatly covered in piles of paper and untouched stationary. If Louis took the time to look around the office some more, he would notice that it is almost the size of his entire apartment. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gazes unwaveringly at the large man pacing before him. Dressed in a sharp suit pulled tightly over his protruding stomach. Fine white hair combed back over his balding head, grey eyes piercing as they study the men lined up in front of him. 

“Quite an ensemble we have here,” the boss snorts, eyes falling on Louis who is the shortest of the lot. Louis doesn’t back down however, doesn’t feel embarrassed. He may not be tall but he’s got some meat on him – a two hundred pound wrestler compared to the tall, reedy man to his left. 

“Name, son,” the boss orders, coming to a stop in front of Louis and folding his arms across his chest. The boss is taking the mick, Louis can tell. 

“Tomlinson, sir,” he replies, voice steady. Meeting his gaze. “Louis Tomlinson.” 

“Tell me, Tomlinson,” the boss says, lowering his head so his stature is hunched. “What on earth are you doing in my office?” 

“I work in the building, sir,” Louis explains, trying his hardest not to sound patronizing. Whilst the other men are stiff, breathing rapidly, Louis suddenly feels very amused. A smile is threatening to overtake his firmly pressed lips. “Heard about the job and wanted in.” 

“Wanted _in_ ,” the boss repeats, eyebrow quirking. “This isn’t your local sports team, kid. This is dangerous work I’m offering.” 

“Which is why I’m here,” Louis replies and he knows he’s pushing it. “Sir,” he adds as an afterthought, because it might make him seem like less of an arsehole. When, really, it only emphasizes the fact that it was an afterthought. 

“Right, and you think you’re suitable for the job, then?” the boss asks. 

“Yes, sir. I think this job is suitable for me.” 

It seems as though the boss has taken a few steps away from him when he leans back, one hand going to his chin as he studies Louis thoughtfully. 

“Ross,” he calls after a few moments silence, addressing the thickly built man at the end of the row without moving his gaze. “You’re in.” 

“Thank you, sir –,”

“And you, Tomlinson.” The boss pauses, looks as though this is a decision he might want rethink. “You’re in.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Louis answers, giving him a bow. Which is really pushing it, making it seem like he’s taking this whole thing as a joke. But the boss just smiles and claps him on the back, a little too roughly, jolting Louis forwards. 

“Hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, son,” he says as the rest of the men begin to disperse, leave the room as though they can’t get out of there fast enough. 

“Me too,” Louis says. 

But he leaves the room grinning because he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. He’s just become the boss’s hitman. He’s just started the rest of his life.


	2. Five Months Later

“You know, you should really get that checked out,” Harry says, pressing the bottle of beer to his lips as he reaches out to touch the swelling bruise on Louis’s jaw.  
Louis swats his hand away, gazing quickly around the small pub as though the slight act will bring attention to the injuries colouring his skin. 

“It’s fine,” he says, trying for dismissive but landing defensive. 

Harry rolls his eyes. 

“Fine my ass. Look at your wrist, mate. Tell me that’s not broken.” 

“It’s _fine_ ,” Louis insists, but he jiggles his arm so his sleeve falls over the swelling, purple mess that is currently his right wrist. Bruises spreading up is hands to his finger-tips, everything puffy and red. 

This is why he doesn’t hang out with Harry anymore. Well, this and his boss’s warning. But, really, Harry can be _insufferable_. Always prodding and poking, drawing attention to things that Louis wants to keep hidden away. Smiling and laughing and acting as though they are still the two teenage boys that made a muck back in high school. Been best-mates ever since they were sixteen, but Louis has ensured a stretching distance between them the last few months. 

“Be careful not to have anyone too close to you,” the boss had warned, looking between Louis and the other hitman, Ross, sternly. “Don’t wanna drag anyone into this life, boys, it’ll destroy them.” 

Of course, the boss had continued that they didn’t have to distance themselves from everyone but Louis didn’t want to take any chances. 

Harry is persistent though, and they’ve caught up for a drink a few times over the last five months. 

“If you say so,” Harry says now, shaking his head, causing his unruly curls to fall into his green eyes. “Just hard for me to tell these days, you know, on account of the fact that I never see you.” 

There’s an accusing look in his eyes, hiding beneath the usual mischievous glint. 

“Yeah, well, then I guess you gotta take my word for it,” Louis shrugs. He looks past Harry’s shoulder, at the small box television hoisted up in the wall in the corner of the bar. “Argentina’s winning.” 

“Go Messi,” Harry says, but it’s half-arsed and he looks distracted. Annoyed at Louis for changing the subject. “You know, I think you owe me a favour.” 

Louis gazes at him in surprise, almost choking on his beer. Spluttering against the bottle. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“A favour, Louis. I think you owe me one.” 

“Rearranging the sentence isn’t gonna help me, you twat. What the _hell_ do I owe you a favour for?” 

“For being the worst best mate in the world,” Harry replies simply and Louis wants to laugh. Does, in fact. But it’s drowned in the sound of the pub erupting in a large cheer. Argentina’s just scored another goal. 

“Is that it?” Louis asks, once everyone’s died down, grinning stupidly. 

“It’s more like a sub heading, covering all the dot-points,” Harry begins, trying to sound all intelligent. 

“That’s bullshit mate,” Louis snorts. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying. And what is this mysterious favour you want of me, anyway?” 

“Look, I got Zayn and Liam round at my place, right?” Harry starts and Louis is quick to drop the smile. 

Right. Zayn and Liam are friends of both he and Harry, yet when they came into town broke and looking for a place to stay while they studied, Louis turned them down. Harry was left to take them in and Louis does sometimes feel guilty about it. But they had just come at the _worst_ possible time, with his new job just starting up and the injuries worse because he was still getting used to it. 

“Yeah,” Harry nods, seeing the look on Louis’s face. “See what I’m talking about? Worst best mate ever.” 

“Oh, just shut up and get on with it.” 

“Well, this old friend of mine is coming over. Had some…family problems. Kicked out of the house. Looking for a fresh start and…” 

“You want to know if he can room with me,” Louis finishes with a weary sigh. He should’ve seen this coming. 

“Just for a bit. Until he can get back on his feet. He’d stay at mine but there’s no space what with me only having one guest room and _two guests_ …” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Louis cuts him off quickly, holding up his beer in a gesture to silence him. “I just don’t think this is a good idea…I mean…isn’t there somewhere else he can stay?” 

Harry shakes his head. 

“Nope. Let me assure you, if there was then he definitely would not be asking for my help. Hates feeling like a burden, he does.” 

Then he gazes at Louis pleadingly until Louis can’t look at him anymore, eyes flickering back to the screen over his shoulder. The players look like nothing more than coloured blurs against bright green and he can’t seem to focus on anything. Nothing he’s seeing. Not his own thoughts. He uses that an excuse to himself later when he sighs and replies with, “Alright. He can stay with me.” 

And Harry cheers so loudly people think Argentina’s scored another goal. 

 

“He’ll come next Tuesday,” Harry had said, patting Louis’s back at they left the pub. 

“His name is Niall.” 

“He’ll hardly bother you. Won’t even know he’s there.” 

“Not gonna stay long.” 

“You won’t have to worry, mate.” 

 

Louis feels stupid for believing him.


	3. Next Tuesday

Louis’s flat really is small. A dump. Complete and utter piece of shit. Dusty, unpainted. Everything broken until he took the job. Then he could fix the leaky tap and rattling air conditioner. Upgrade his television and stock the fridge. 

But none of that can disguise the fact that it’s cramped. The front door opening up to the biggest room of the house, the open, spacious lounge-room. Which consists of one broken, light grey couch with cream arm chair to (not) match, on the right side of the room facing the television. The door to the bathroom on one side of the flat-screen and the door to his bedroom on the other. And his bedroom is just so pathetic. One chest of drawers and a double bed. Small desk shoved up against the wall that doesn’t even have a chair to go with it. 

Back outside in the lounge, which connects to the small kitchen on the left side, there’s another door. Leading to the guest room. Consisting of exactly one single bed and nothing else. Because nothing else can fit. There’s a small amount of floor space just inside the bedroom door, only enough for one person to stand on, and then there’s the bed. The walls tight around it, so it’s more like a cupboard than a bedroom. 

But it’s all Louis has. And so it’s what his new roommate, Niall, is going to get. 

 

Harry arrives exactly when he said he would, bounding through the front door like he owns the place when this is only the third time he has been here. 

“Thanks for doing this, buddy,” he says, pulling Louis into a one shouldered hug as Niall walks through the door. And Louis doesn’t even reply, can’t even reply, because he’s suddenly staring at the scrawny boy in front of him. 

Messy blonde hair, around his height, lanky and pale skinned. Round blue eyes not skirting around the apartment like Harry’s currently are (and Louis can feel the judgement from his best friend) but instead they find Louis. Lighting up as he smiles gratefully. 

“Hi,” he says, taking a few steps towards him. He offers Louis his free hand – the other one is carrying a navy blue duffel bag – and gives it a small shake. His hands are warm. “I’m Niall, if Harry hasn’t already told you.” 

“Louis,” Louis replies, letting go of Niall’s hand and tugging his sleeves right down to his palms. Niall doesn’t seem to notice the bandage now wrapped tightly around his wrist.

“I know. Thanks so much for this, mate. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” 

Louis shrugs. “I’m sorry it’s not much.” 

Niall finally lets his eyes wander about the flat, and there’s no pinched expression Harry got when he first saw it. 

“It’s fine. Really. Much better than what I had before.” Something flickers over his face and he quickly diverts his attention. “Nice TV.” 

“Yeah, that’s really all this place has going for it. Probably the only reason Harry sticks around too,” Louis replies. Harry just shrugs and Niall laughs, a little loud but somehow just enough to rid the air of the awkward edge it was previously holding. And Louis gets the feeling that introductions are over, and the boy standing in front of him is his new flatmate, and this might not be as bad as he was making it out to be. 

 

But Louis remembers his boss’s words as Niall sets up in his new room and Harry waves them off, promises to catch up soon. And of course, _of course_ , this is going to be bad. It was bad the moment Harry opened his mouth at the pub. 

Niall is too friendly, too likeable. He chatters happily to Louis that night while they sit on the couch with the television on in the background. And Louis’s plan was to not like him. To keep a distance. And he can already tell that Niall is going to make that difficult. 

So Louis has to be the one that’s not likeable, unfriendly. Midway through Niall’s story of injuring his knee playing football, Louis gets to his feet and announces that he’s going to bed. That he has work and is tired and that Niall is free to do whatever he wants. Eat food from the fridge and watch a movie and _good night, it was nice to meet you_.  
And he leaves Niall on the couch, staring after him in surprise, a story still hanging from his lips.


	4. The Job

“Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Louis circles the chair like an eagle, the man tied in thick rope his prey. Sweat beads forming on the man’s forehead, trickles down his wrinkled face. The house they’re in seems nice, a lot nicer than Louis’s, wide and open and modern. He tries to ignore the fact that he stepped over a set of Barbie dolls on his way in, tries to ignore everything but the words coming from the middle-aged man’s mouth. 

“You seemed to know when you were texting your accomplice a few hours ago,” Louis scowls, holding up a shiny black mobile phone, watching the man’s eyes widen.

“How did you…” 

“You got your ways, Frank, and I got mine.” 

It was actually all Ross, the second hitman, and Louis has no idea how he was able to receive text messages without Frank and his accomplice knowing, but that doesn’t sound half as cool as what he just said. 

“Look, I don’t have what you’re looking for. You must be mistaking me for someone else…” 

The sentence ends in a sharp intake of breath as Louis swings and connects his right fist with the man’s jaw. 

“Cut the crap. I’ve been monitoring you for weeks. You’ve got the money and I want it back.” 

“What do you mean ‘want it back’? I didn’t take any money from you! I don’t even know who you are.” 

Louis grins. 

“That’s the whole point of my job, now isn’t it? I –,” he cuts off abruptly, stiffens like a dog catching a scent. Footsteps. He can hear someone outside, shoes against concrete. 

Louis is on the man in seconds, gripping his collar, pulling their eyes level. 

“Have you called your people here, Frank? Have you called for back-up?” 

But he doesn’t let the man answer, clapping a hand tightly over his mouth and listening intently to the noise outside. Sounds like three of them, coming round the front.

Guess he’ll just have to leave out the back. 

First, deal with Frank. He could kill him, but he still needs to find out where the money is being kept. There’s no way he can leave him conscious though, because he’ll be shouting for his men within seconds. 

Louis pulls his hand gun out of his pocket, other hand still against Frank’s mouth. 

“We’ll settle this later,” he hisses. Then he brings the butt of the gun down on Frank’s head, the man’s cry getting caught in Louis’s hand before he falls limp in the chair.  
At the front of the house, Louis can hear the front door burst open, causing him to almost jump out of his skin. He tucks his gun away quickly, rushing out of the room. Out the back door and onto the street before the men can even begin to assess the damage. 

 

It’s late when Louis reaches his flat. And he’s tired. A small scuffle with Frank when he first arrived uninvited to the man’s house has left him with a split lip and gash on his arm. Hopefully it’s late enough for Niall to be in bed when he gets inside. The last thing he wants to do is come up with some stupid excuse of how he ended up so bloodied. 

Niall’s been living with him for four days and so far they’ve only had two full conversations. First one being on the day that Niall arrived, the one that Louis cut short. Second one being yesterday morning, when a very tired looking Niall had asked him if he wanted him to go out and buy some more breakfast cereal. 

_Because he’s happy too and all that. Just tell him where the supermarket is and he’ll pick up anything Louis needs_. 

And Louis had just shrugged and handed him some money and told him to go for his life. Leaving Niall looking shocked and stammering that he couldn’t take it all and that really he could pay for his own cereal and a whole bunch of stuff Louis didn’t quite catch. 

Louis counts it as a full conversation because the rest of their interactions have just been polite _‘hellos’_ if they manage to see each other in the morning before they go out, or quick _‘nights’_ if there’s an odd chance of them both being in the house at night. 

It’s very unlikely that Niall will still be up, but Louis does the best he can to make himself look presentable before he enters the flat. First thing he notices is that the television is on, some infomercial playing that has probably been on the screen for fifteen minutes. And a sleeping Niall on the couch, covered in a thin blanket Louis isn’t sure he owns. A clock on the wall tells him it’s two in the morning, as does the sudden heaviness of his eyelids, and he trudges across the lounge to his bedroom door. Hand on the handle when he hears a groggy, “Party hard?” 

Louis doesn’t turn around immediately. Not sure if he’s surprised. Kind of expected it, actually. But he still has to brace himself, close his eyes and count to five before he faces the sleepy boy on the couch. 

“Is this what you usually wear to a party?” he asks, gesturing to his dark suit, trying to stand a certain way so Niall can’t see the large tear in one sleeve. Covered in blood. 

“Usually what I’d wear to a funeral,” Niall says, hand coming up to rubs at his eyes. “Or church. Praying hard?” 

A snort escapes Louis before he can stop himself. Suddenly forgetting that he’s in desperate need of medical attention. 

“Yeah, just couldn’t wait for Sunday mass. Forget parties, Niall, all the fun is at the chapel at two am.” 

Niall laughs, loud in the quiet house. And Louis doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his split lip starts to sting. 

“I gotta go to bed,” he says, nodding at his bedroom door. “You planning on watching the _‘number one food processer in the world’_ any longer?” 

Niall glances at the TV screen and snorts. 

“This happens to be _great_ television, Louis. You laugh, you cry.” 

“You want to jump in front of a train,” Louis adds. 

“But it makes you _feel_ something,” Niall says. And for a moment they just grin at each other stupidly, the early hours of the morning apparent in their darkly ringed eyes. 

Then Louis starts, realizes what he’s doing. 

“Well, enjoy the show.” 

He’s in his room, bedroom door shut behind him, before Niall can say anything else. 

Three full conversations. Louis hopes there’s not going to be a time where he’s lost count.


	5. The Money

Coffee warm in his hands, Louis fumbles for his keys at the front door. Sun already high in the sky, warming his back as he mutters angrily under his breath. It has to be nine in the morning, and he hasn’t been home all night. But the job is done, the money from Frank returned to his boss. And some stashed in his coat pocket. 

Giving up on his keys, he knocks on the door, sipping the coffee that burns the tip of his tongue. 

Niall answers almost immediately, hair damp from a shower, donning comfortable sweat pants and a t-shirt. 

“Hey,” he says. It looks like he wants to say something else, eyes flickering to where a bruise is spreading on Louis’s cheek. 

“Hey,” Louis replies, shouldering past him, holding back a wince. He’s only just popped his shoulder back into the socket after it was dislocated by one of Frank’s men. Niall shuts the door after him, watches silently as Louis makes his way into the kitchen and searches through the cupboards for something to eat. Somehow, Louis knows exactly what Niall is keeping himself from asking. 

“Stayed at a mate’s place,” Louis explains, not looking back. He finds a half-opened box of biscuits and shoves a couple in his mouth. 

“Harry’s?” Niall asks. 

“Nah, someone else,” Louis replies around a mouth full of food. Washing it all down with a large gulp of coffee before he remembers it’s too hot. 

“Do I know him?” questions Niall. 

Louis snorts, slamming the cupboard shut and resting his coffee on the counter. 

“What are you, my wife?” 

Niall joins him in the kitchen, steals a couple of biscuits. They’re around the same height, so whenever they stand like this Louis has no other choice but to stare into Niall’s eyes. And they’re really blue and everything. Like, _really_ blue. 

“Nah,” is all Niall says. “You doing anything today? I found your Playstation, and we’re going to play FIFA. And I’m gonna kick your butt.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Louis studies Niall, and Niall studies Louis. Obvious that Niall is looking at the bruise, and the scars on Louis’ neck and the horrible half-healed split on his lip. But Louis tries to keep anything from showing on his face. Because he’s thinking about how he should refuse this offer, but he’s also thinking that it’s _just FIFA_. Really, how close can a couple of games make them? If anything, it’ll leave Louis hating Niall, cursing his name because Louis sucks at that stupid video game. 

But above everything, he’s exhausted. Didn’t get any sleep last night on account that he was _killing a man_. 

“I already got the game ready,” Niall says, once the silence has stretched on for way too long. He looks sheepish. “So you can’t say no.” 

He probably won’t be able to sleep right now anyway. Maybe he should just chug the rest of his coffee and hope he doesn’t lose too badly. 

“Yeah, alright,” Louis sighs, hating himself for it. “Just don’t go crying when you don’t win.” 

“Deal.” 

 

The money is stashed beneath his mattress. Louis feels paranoid about it sometimes, double checking and then triple making sure it’s all still there. Sleeping on it can make him restless, tossing and turning as he remembers how he got it, feeling as though he can feel each and every note beneath him. Digging into his back, cutting into his skin until he wakes up stifling a shout, body writhing and tangled in his sheets. 

When he does that he pulls himself out of bed, snatches up the torch he keeps on the otherwise unused desk, lifts up his mattress, and counts it all. 

Unsure of how long it takes him, breathing heavily and forcing his heavy eyes open. Hands shaking as they make neat little stacks on the floor. Ordered. Because he likes to remind himself that he has control over it, not the other way round. 

Sometimes he’ll hear noises around him, like shuffling footsteps, and his breath will catch and heart will pound as his brain immediately gives him the worst possible reason.  
 _They’re back. They’re back for their money but they can’t take it, it’s mine. They’re back to get me. They’re dead but they’re back_.

The only times he’s ever barged out his bedroom door, gun tucked into the waistline of his pants, he’s found a very scared Niall getting a drink of water from the kitchen. 

_“Sorry, mate, I didn’t mean to wake you…”_

Niall is always so apologetic, and worried, while Louis stands there covered in sweat and paper cuts, shifting his body so Niall can’t see the stack of money he’s got on his bedroom floor. 

One week in and Louis has learned Niall’s footsteps, how it’s always a bit of a shuffle, yet a little too heavy, as he staggers around the lounge-room at night. Saving himself from making a wild-eyed appearance, weapon ready and acting on panic. 

But one week in Louis has noticed that Niall gets up every night. And if he listens close enough he can tell that Niall doesn’t go to the bathroom, and only a couple of times does he get himself something to drink. Louis has no idea what he gets up for so late but he can’t say anything. Not when he’s up at three am, re-counting two thousand dollars cash on the bedroom floor. 

 

Harry forces them out of the house a couple days later, bursting into the flat and exclaiming that they were going to have some fun and be social because _look at you two_.

And Niall and Louis had been sitting on the couch, Louis trying to secretly nurse his sore wrist – which had been giving him some grief – whilst the two of them shovelled bags of chips into their mouths, barely able to distinguish a word anyone on the TV was saying due to their loud crunching. 

“This is a sad sight,” Harry had said, shaking his head. “You two need to get laid and fast.”

Niall had blushed red and shoved him, telling him to shut up, whilst Louis had wiggled his eye brows and said, “You offering?” 

Both boys had laughed, Harry quick to tell him to just put some nicer clothes on, and Niall looking kind of jittery and nervous. 

“Wait, I need to go back inside,” Niall had said as they were packing themselves into Harry’s car. Louis rolled his eyes and told him to be quick whilst Harry started the engine. He’d taken a little longer than Louis had thought, but he guessed he was just grabbing a jacket. 

Now they’re at the club, Harry off somewhere dancing with some girl he just met, and Niall, Louis, Liam and Zayn standing off to the side. Beers in their hands, watching the tight-knit room of people dance to a beat that’s ringing loudly in Louis’s ears. 

Liam keeps trying to make conversation with Louis, and Louis indulges him for no more than a quick second. Trying not to seem mean, or angry at his friend, while still trying to make Liam get the hint that he doesn’t want to talk. Eventually Liam gets pulled into the crowd by Harry (who gives Louis a look like _you’re next_ ) and Louis pretends not to be listening in to Niall and Zayn’s conversation. 

“So, you moved from Ireland?” Zayn is asking, leaning against the wall, raising his voice to be heard over the music. 

“Yeah, two weeks ago or so,” Niall replies, gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Needed a fresh start.” Then he speaks quickly, as though he’s trying to cut off whatever reply Zayn is about to give. “So you live with Harry?” 

Louis knows that Niall already knows that because it was brought up in their fifth full conversation. So far they’ve had seven. Louis is learning to master the art of one worded replies, answers that leave no room for more discussion. Niall is like Harry, though: persistent. Though he’s less ‘in your face’. And irritatingly likeable. 

The conversation has changed again, Louis has missed a chunk of it. 

“…I’ve been applying everywhere, really. There’s a ton of places only a few blocks from the flat so I’ve been giving my resume in. Got an interview day after tomorrow actually,” Niall is saying. 

Louis realizes with a small start that he never knew that. And that that must be where Niall is all the time. Between the two of them no one’s ever home at their flat. 

“Oh, nice,” Zayn says. “Where’s the interview?” 

“The cinema, a couple of streets from here,” Niall answers, and though he continues on with some stuff about it not being much and all, Louis has stopped listening. Something about that struck him, tightened his grip on his beer and stare with his vision blurred. The cinema. There’s something about it…something he knows. He can’t put his finger on it. Maybe it’s nothing. 

But, still, he feels on edge. 

 

They’re only kind of drunk and the club isn’t far from their flat and Louis finds himself walking home with Niall. 

Harry had looked incredibly disappointed when he’d found the two of them alone standing by the wall at the end of the night. Apparently, all three of the others had managed to get some with pretty girls they all just met. Whilst Louis and Niall had watched the dancing and Niall talked about FIFA, standing a little too close. 

“Really, lads? This night was for _you_ ,” Harry had said incredulously. His hair a mess and his shirt buttons in the wrong holes. 

“I had fun, Harry. It was nice meeting Liam and Zayn and getting out of the house,” Niall had tried to reassure him, giving Louis a look that asked for backup. 

“Yeah, mate,” Louis had agreed, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “It’ll happen next time, I promise. And I’ll buy everyone a drink to celebrate.” 

“You’re full of it, Tomlinson,” Harry had said. But he seemed okay with that, and let the boys go without any more complaints. 

Right now, in the empty streets, the night dark but the moon casting shadows, Niall is chattering on about something Louis can’t actually understand. Niall’s accent seems stronger, slurring his already drunkenly slurred words until they’re utterly incomprehensible. 

Louis shoves his hands in his coat pockets, the night’s dropping temperatures causing the condensation of Niall’s breath to linger by his lips. Louis watches each little puff, like smoke, until he realizes that Niall is walking really quickly. And his pale skin is covered in goose-bumps. Because he’s cold. Because the idiot didn’t bring a jacket. 

It’s his own fault. That’s what Louis tells himself. He shouldn’t suddenly feel responsible. It’s _Harry’s_ fault if anything. Stupid twat rushed them out the door with hardly any warning. 

For some reason, Louis can feel himself shrugging off his own coat. Cold air immediately prickling his own skin, stinging his arms. 

He thrust the coat towards Niall before he can think anything else. 

“Here,” he mutters, pushing it into Niall’s arms, the other lad giving him a raise of the eyebrows. Then a smirk. 

“What am I, your date?” 

His face is suddenly flushed, gently pushing the coat away. 

“Just take it,” Louis presses. “You’re freezing.”

“No, really, I’m…” 

“Just take it, mate. Don’t make me put it on you myself.” 

Niall studies him for a moment, in that kind of intense way he does. Like he’s trying to read words etched into Louis’s skin. Then he takes the coat in his hands and tugs it on.

“Thanks,” he mutters. He fidgets with the zipper for a bit, opening his mouth a couple of times like he has something to say. 

Finally, he seems to settle on, “Harry’s a funny lad. Said all that stuff about tonight being about us.” He stammers a bit, like he regrets that choice of wording. “Well, you know. Getting me and you out of the house and all that crap. Really, I think he just wanted an excuse to have sex with a stranger in a dirty bathroom stall.” 

Louis snorts. 

“Trust me, Harry never needs an excuse for that. He just does it. Unfortunately, the whole bit about him being worried about our social lives is true.” 

When you’ve known Harry for as long as Louis has, this sort of thing just becomes a given. Louis glances at Niall as he realizes that he doesn’t even know how Niall knows Harry. Could have known him for as long as Louis has. Though Louis doubts it. And he doesn’t bother to find out. 

“Guess we’re screwed then,” Niall sighs. “He’s not gonna leave us alone. Do you think he’d listen if I told him I _like_ staying home playing FIFA?” 

“If anything, telling him that will make it worse.” 

The jacket is a little bit big on Niall, loose on his skinny frame. He hugs it tightly around his body. 

“Great. Well, hopefully I’ll have a job soon, then I can tell him I’m not home all the time. And he makes me go for lunch with him all the time anyway, so I don’t really know what he’s going on about.” 

Wait, Harry and Niall have been hanging out? It shouldn’t surprise Louis but it does. And he suddenly wants to ask about it. _Actually ask Niall Horan about his life_.

But all he says is, “Harry’s such a tit.” 

And Niall laughs, the sound echoing down the empty street. 

When they get home, Louis heads straight to bed. Niall says he’s not tired and wants to watch a movie, bidding Louis good night and promising not to have the volume up too loud. 

Louis just shrugs and shuts his bedroom door, flicking on the light and staring in horror at the scattered piles of money at his feet.


	6. The Lie

Niall is cooking breakfast the next morning, bacon and eggs on the stove, humming to himself softly. Louis enters the lounge-room warily, hair a mess, the lack of sleep evident in his face. Spent the entire night re-counting his money, and stashing it back under his mattress. None of it had been taken, which makes Louis think that maybe he had been the one that left it all over the floor. But he can’t remember doing that. He’s always _so_ careful, so paranoid about the money being found. There’s no way he could ever do something so stupid. 

There’s a gun in the waistline of his pants because _who else could it be_? At first, Louis had suspected an intruder. But there was no sign of breaking and entering, nothing else in the house touched or disturbed. Then he’d gone back to thinking it was himself but there was just no way that that could be possible. _Then_ he thought about calling his boss, or Ross, because they could probably do something like this. But surely they’d take some of the money, and have made some sort of attempt to contact him by now. 

This was an inside job. And if it wasn’t him then it’s the blonde boy making breakfast in front of him. And it fits, now that Louis has thought through it. At first, he’d questioned when on earth Niall got the time to do this, considering they had been out last night and the room had been untouched before that. But then he’d remembered that Niall had gone back inside, while he and Harry sat in the car. Didn’t even tell them what he was doing and took longer than he should have. Louis hadn’t thought much about it then, assuming that Niall had just grabbed a jacket. Which he hadn’t. Because he’d worn Louis’s jacket home. 

So it all makes sense. Niall went back into the flat to look through Louis’s things, and now he’s cooking breakfast for the first time to arm himself with a weapon. The searing hot pan in his hands. He’s working for someone. He has to be. 

“Hey, Niall,” Louis greets him, tapping his fingers along the back of the couch. 

“Morning,” Niall replies around a mouthful of hot bacon. He gestures to the pan with a nod. “Want some?” 

“I’m good.” Louis pauses, watches as Niall shrugs and turns his back on him. Breaks a couple of eggs into the pan. There’s no holding back now. Louis can feel the apprehension mixing with the suspicion, the adrenaline. “Hey, mate, I just wanted to ask you. What did you go back for yesterday? While me and Harry were in the car?” 

Niall stiffens and the suspicion in Louis spikes, hand reflexively going to his gun as he takes two steps forwards. 

“Weird question,” Niall says, keeping his back turned. Avoiding eye contact, Louis notes. Adds it to the list of _reasons why he’s prepping himself to confront his flatmate_. “Why you asking?” 

“Just wondering.” 

Louis moves even closer, leaning against the counter a few steps away from the stove. If he looks closely, he can see sweat forming like beads on Niall’s forehead.

Niall’s nervous. 

“Dunno, mate, can’t tell you. Can’t remember.” Niall chances him a sideways glance, lifts up the pan to show him the eggs. “You sure you don’t want anything?” 

“Come on, Niall,” Louis ignores his offer. “Of course you remember. You were inside a long time. What’d you go back for?” 

Louis moves along the counter, even closer. Niall is breathing heavily, going red. 

“My jacket,” he stammers and that’s it. Louis is on him in a second, turning Niall around so his back is to the stove, gripping him by the collar. 

“ _Bullshit_ ," he hisses. "You didn’t have a jacket last night. I gave you mine.” 

“I-I don’t know,” Niall sputters, hands going up to Louis’s arms, trying to pry them away. “Jesus, Louis, why are getting so worked up about this? What is going on?”

“Just fucking tell me, Niall,” Louis growls and Niall’s eyes go wide as Louis jabs his gun into the skin above the other’s boys hip. 

“Is that…holy shit is that a gun?” Niall trembles, drops his hands. “Holy…what the hell. Louis, I don’t…you’re not going to shoot me are you?” 

“I’ll do whatever I have to if you don’t tell me what you were doing last night.” 

Niall flushes deep red, unable to meet Louis’s gaze. Louis leers right in his face, pushing his body against him. He can smell the bacon in Niall’s breath. 

This is it, Niall is acting funny, all signs lead to him. The suspicion in Louis has reached its peak, threatens to tip over and pull the trigger. 

But then Niall mutters, “It’s kinda embarrassing,” and Louis almost takes a step back. 

“What? What do you…? Niall, I have you at gun point. I _will_ shoot you. This…this is not the time to be embarrassed.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Niall sighs, lifting an arm to scratch the back of his neck. Louis searches his eyes, his face, scrutinizes every detail like he’s been taught to. Niall’s stance is suddenly quite casual. “But I…I kinda went back to, like, brush my teeth and stuff. Like freshen up.” 

He looks at Louis not like he thinks he’s going to shoot him, but like he’s afraid Louis will laugh. Louis just blinks at him, pauses for a very long time. 

“Oh.” 

Niall’s telling the truth. Studying him closely, Louis can see it. Which is a relief. But also very bad news. Because Louis is kinda aiming a gun at him right now. 

“Oh,” he says again, trying to process everything. The vicious cocktail of apprehension, suspicious, and adrenaline now empty, leaving him feeling almost deflated and very confused. 

“Yeah,” Niall says and Louis takes a step back, fixes Niall’s shirt like it will fix the situation. “I mean Harry said all that stuff about getting laid and everything…” 

“Okay, okay, Niall, I get it,” Louis cuts him off quickly because that’s making _him_ feel embarrassed. This is so messed up right now. 

“Oh, right. Okay.” The eggs are burning but Niall doesn’t seem to notice. “So…nice gun.” 

“I’m really sorry about all that…” 

“It’s alright,” Niall shrugs, like Louis has just apologized for playing music too loud. “You know, for a moment there I was thinking to myself: _oh, god is this about FIFA_? But that’s kinda ridiculous…and, uh, also…what _is_ this about?” 

Louis hesitates, shuffles his feet, stares at the gun in his hand. Why the hell did he rush into the situation like that? Why hadn’t he waited? This is why he never goes into a job tired and slightly hung over, because he will do shit like this. 

“It’s um…someone had touched my stuff…in my room. Like moved it around, looked like someone had broken in.” 

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this awkward in his life. Usually, he can bullshit a lie so fast even _he’s_ surprised. But that’s always in a dangerous situation, that feels strictly business, feels like his job. Niall has somehow managed to make this conversation feel completely casual, like two friends just having a chat. 

“Wait, holy _shit_ , Louis. That’s bad! Do you think someone broke in? Whoa, whoa, whoa…you thought _I_ broke in?” 

“It looked like an inside job and I was just making sure.” 

Niall stares at him incredulously but, for some reason, doesn’t look angry. 

“Jeez, is that how you get all your answers? Wave your gun at people? Do you ask people on the street for directions with the barrel pointed to their skull?” 

“Look, my room was really messed up and I was suspicious and also my hangover made it hard to think…” Louis tries to explain, tries to make this sound as casual as possible. Like this sort of thing really isn’t that bad. Last thing he needs is Niall calling the police. 

“You should’ve told me,” Niall says, still not sounding very mad at all. 

“I should’ve. Look, I’m really sorry, Niall.” There’s a long pause, stretching on, emphasizing the sizzling eggs in the pan and burning stench filling the air. Niall looks at him expectantly and Louis doesn’t understand why until he realizes he’s been opening and closing his mouth. 

“I, um, I understand if you don’t wanna live here anymore…in fact, I think it’s probably best if you don’t…” Louis finally says. 

“Why? Coz you’re gonna murder me?” 

“Of course not,” Louis answers quickly. “I just…understand if you don’t trust me considering I had you at gunpoint and everything.” 

Niall doesn’t answer for a little while, tapping his fingers against his lips and gazing at Louis. Looking deep in thought. 

“Maybe I should, but…Harry seems to trust you,” he says at last. “And I trust Harry. And I also understand the feeling, like, what you must have been feeling you pulled that gun out. Completely panicked. Desperate. I’ve…I’ve been there mate.” 

“Niall…” 

“I don’t think I’m gonna leave here yet. Unless you actually kick me out. But…the rent is cheap and it’s close to all the stores I’ve applied at. I’ll just make sure not to get on your bad side, maybe go a bit easier on you when we’re playing FIFA.” 

He grins and it seems so inappropriate right now but for some reason Louis really appreciates it. Really appreciates the fact that Niall has decided to stay, to not bolt out the door screaming bloody murder. And he shouldn’t. Really shouldn’t. 

Because not only that but this all tells him something about Niall. The guy’s too trusting. Too forgiving. Everything that Louis isn’t. And though Louis eased off, noticed that it seemed Niall was telling the truth, suspicion still lingers within him. No normal human being would still live with him, brush off an incident like that as if it was nothing. Something has to be going on. 

Maybe Louis can use Niall’s decision to continue living with him to his advantage. Having the other boy so close all the time can mean he can keep an eye on him, make sure he really is what he’s making himself out to be.


	7. The Change

Louis gets worse.

Waking up night after night, picking at his skin, covered in sweat. The money digging into his back from under the mattress, and his mind anxiously wondering whether anyone’s going to burst through the door and try and steal it. Just like he did. 

It doesn’t help that Niall still gets up every night, and the first sign of movement can send Louis flying towards his bedroom door, pressed up against it with his gun in his hand, listening for intruders. He backs away when he hears the familiar pattern of Niall’s footsteps, slinking off to the foot his bed. He lifts the mattress and begins to stack the money found there. It’s getting too much to count all of it, he hasn’t gone through every single note in a long time, but he counts the stacks that he made prior, creating a wall of them around himself as he sits hunched up on the floor. 

He sometimes wonders if Niall can hear him get up late at night too, but mostly he worries about who broke into his room. 

There’s no way he can truthfully say that he’s dropped all suspicions of Niall, but he has pushed his roommate back on his possible list of suspects. 

And it’s _really_ hard to create a plausible list, despite the fact that all this money has been stolen from people who could want it back, because all those people are now dead. So he goes back to thinking it was his boss or Ross, even brings it up at the next meeting in his boss’s office. Completely aware that he’s too twitchy and sounds too paranoid as he questions the other two, but unable to stop himself. The boss looks interested for a bit, glancing out the wall of glass window, lightly stroking his chin as if in thought. Then he seems to grow bored, snapping at Louis to stop being so panicky. That he can’t have him in this sort of condition because he’d end up blowing missions.  
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Tomlinson,” he’d said, finally directing his eyes at Louis. “But you’re going to have to deal with this yourself.” 

It’s two am now, one week after Louis found his money scattered all over the bedroom floor, and he’s carefully recreating the Great Wall of China with the thick stacks of cash. Niall got up an hour ago, Louis listened as the other lad shuffled around a bit before growing quiet. 

Maybe it _was_ himself. Maybe he was just careless and left his money out. Maybe he imagined the whole thing. There’s no other leads so that could be just as probable as anything else. 

Maybe he should try and push this all behind him. His boss was right, this could seriously affect his performance on jobs. You can’t have someone anxious and paranoid terrorizing people for money. He will do what he can. Monitor Niall, watch over the flat, make sure he packs the notes away carefully. 

He should really find out what Niall is getting up for every night, but he doesn’t think he can confront him again after what happened last time. People need time to recover after you grab them by the collar and threaten to shoot them. 

Though if you look at Niall now, you would think he’s forgotten the whole thing. At first he’d continuously insisted that Louis take his concerns to the police, until Louis had managed to convince him that there was no point because that’s exactly how the police would see it as. _A concern_. Nothing to worry about. So Niall let it drop and now he’s as bubbly, friendly, chatty as ever. 

He got the job at the cinema and celebrated with ice cream, wine, and a movie on the couch. Patting the empty space next to him invitingly when Louis walked into the room. It seems he’s always inviting Louis to do things with him whenever they’re in the flat together, mostly play FIFA and watch movies, sometimes something small like _come and laugh at this commercial, mate, it’s so stupid_ or _hey, can you help me stir this?_ Because Niall is suddenly cooking whenever he can and Louis doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not very good.

“Do you wanna grab some lunch with me?” Niall asks. He’s been living with Louis for over a month now and it’s an odd day where they’re both home. Niall doesn’t have a shift, and isn’t off doing whatever the hell he does when he’s not home but doesn’t have work, and Louis has a day off. 

Louis gives him a glance, Niall is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame and throwing his keys up in his hands as Louis attempts to read a book on his bed.

“Isn’t there left-over pizza in the fridge?” he questions. 

“Nope, all gone. There’s a café just a couple of roads from here and it sells the best coffee you’ve ever tasted in your life.” 

Louis turns his attention back to his book, “I’m good.” 

Niall groans, catching his keys and shoving them in his coat pocket. 

“Come _on_ , Louis. You won’t regret it.” 

He takes a step forwards, a step into Louis’s room. And Louis stiffens, eyes darting to where Niall’s foot rests inside the doorway. 

Panic strikes him before he can stop it. No one is allowed in his room. Ever. All he can think of now is whether or not there’s any money left lying around, whether there’s any poking out beneath the mattress. 

He jumps to his feet before Niall can move any further. 

“Okay, I’ll go,” he says quickly, breathless all of a sudden. 

“Really?” Niall brightens. “That was easier than I thought.” 

 

They walk in silence for a bit. Niall has remembered his jacket this time, though there’s only a slight chill to the air. The sun beating down on them in a partly cloudy sky.

“I’m starving,” Niall says, and he’s speaking just for the sake of it. Niall doesn’t like silence, Louis can tell that much. “I’m gonna order the biggest sandwich they got. And a slice of their chocolate cake because it is _so_ good.” 

“How many times have you been to this place exactly?” Louis asks, fixing his fringe in a parked car’s window. 

“Bunch of times. It’s all Harry’s fault. And Liam and Zayn seem to like it too, so it seems like we’re always there, the four of us.” 

“Right,” Louis replies, and the word is clipped and tight. Surprises himself when he realizes that the statement annoyed him. 

“You should come with us sometime,” Niall pipes up. He’s walking with a bounce in his step like a bloody cartoon character. “I tell the other lads that we should invite you but they always seem to think that you would rather be on your own.” 

“And they’re right,” Louis says, tries to pretend that the fact Niall tells the others to invite him didn’t make him feel strange. 

“Oh, well it’d still be good to have you there, mate. You should come at least once. Be good for you and all that…” 

Louis snorts. 

“What are you, my mother?” 

“Yeah, I know, I know. I’m being like Harry, more like. He keeps hassling me about getting a girlfriend, did you know? It’s so bloody annoying. _He_ doesn’t even have a girlfriend. Just brings a different girl home every night.” 

“Yeah, he’s like that. Used to say that sort of crap to me all the time until I flat out told him to shut up about it. Said I really didn’t want one, anyway, so his pestering was useless."

Niall scratches his ear, gives Louis a sideways glance. 

“Don’t want one, huh? Why’s that?” 

Louis shoves his hands in his pocket with a shrug. 

“I dunno. Don’t like the commitment, don’t wanna settle down, don’t wanna worry about that sort of thing. I’m planning on being single for a while yet.” 

Niall continues to scratch at his ear which Louis notices has gone a bit pink. 

“Oh. Cool. I feel the same way I guess.” A beat of awkward silence. “Hey, look, we’re here.”

 

Sitting in a booth with Niall talking through a mouthful of sandwich, Louis can’t help but laugh to himself. The café is cute. That’s the only way Louis can explain it. And his four mates grab lunch here all the time. Four grown men. Grab lunch at this café. Which is _cute_. How can Louis not laugh at that? 

Except Niall goes on to explain that it’s just him and Harry here most of the time and Louis finds himself scowling. 

“Best coffee ever, right?” Niall says, watching as Louis takes a tentative sip. Kills men but is still afraid of burning his tongue. 

“It’s alright.” 

“ _Alright?_ Louis, this coffee was made by God _himself_.” 

“Well, in my next prayer I’m gonna tell him to add more sugar.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Niall laughs. “It’s good.” 

He’s sitting on the other side of the booth and his hair is that kind of styled messy that he does when he’s going out. Blue eyes light and glinting at Louis, Niall won’t stop looking at him and it makes Louis wonder if he has something on his face. And he won’t stop _talking_. It’s not even about anything important, just FIFA and something funny Liam told him. When he’s not shovelling chocolate cake in his face, Louis likes to watch his mouth. Not in a weird way or anything, he just finds it interesting. The way Niall’s lips move around the words, around his accent. Louis thinks that if he could somehow mute Niall and just watch his lips moving in silence, he would literally be able to _see_ the accent.

They stay at that stupidly cute café for way longer than Louis had wanted – because Niall insisted on ordering _another_ slice of cake and cup of coffee – and it’s late afternoon by the time they’re back walking on the street. 

Louis is hell-bent on going back home. He’s got a job tomorrow and the last thing he wants to be is tired out. But Niall tells him that he’s _absolutely busting for the loo and I’ll be quick, Louis, I promise_. 

He ducks in the nearest building, which happens to be the cinema, and when he comes back out he’s rambling on about a movie he wants to see. At first, his words mean nothing, just added to the rest of the garble that has come out of his mouth today, because Louis is distracted by a sick feeling swirling in his stomach as he looks up at the building. Then Louis realizes that Niall is saying that he wants to see the movie _now_. 

_And he wants Louis to bloody join him_. 

“Look, mate,” Louis says, swallowing thickly because the cinema is making him feel slightly anxious and he doesn’t know why. “I’m really tired. Got a big day at work tomorrow…”

“Oh, come _on_ , Louis. It’s only, what? Three o’clock or something. You’ll have plenty time to rest. And it’s a _movie_. Not like you’re going for a ruddy run or anything, all you got to do is sit there.” 

Louis studies him and Niall stares right back. Not pleadingly, but determinedly. Like he’s made up his mind and he’s not budging. 

“Jeez, you’re worse than Harry.” 

“You’ll watch it then?” Niall grins. 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

The movie really isn’t that great – mainly because Louis is too restless to pay much attention – but Niall seems to enjoy it. 

By the time they’re out of the cinema its dinnertime and Niall is insisting that they grab something to eat. 

_(Can’t we just go home? There’s nothing to eat at home and we’re already out, it’ll just be quick, come on, Louis.)_

They stop at McDonald’s, shuffle inside and breathe in the stench of fried food and hot grease. Niall says he’ll buy Louis a burger but he already paid for the movie and Louis has more than enough to buy dinner for the two of them. 

“Its fine, Louis, I honestly don’t mind paying…” 

“Niall, there’s no way I’m letting you pay for this as well. The movie ticket was enough, and I wanted to pay for that too.” 

“Yeah, but I’m happy to do it…” 

“Seriously, Niall. What is this, a date?” 

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head and pushing past the blonde boy to reach the counter. Niall lets him move forwards, taking a step back, going a bit red. 

The sky is darkening by the time they begin their walk home, air chilled and biting at their exposed skin. 

“You know, if I’m tired at work tomorrow I’m gonna blame you,” Louis says, pulling the collar of his jacket up around his neck, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

Niall’s eyes are bright in the streetlights. 

“Blame me for what? Having a good a time?” He laughs and Louis smiles into the collar of his coat. “You know, I don’t even know where you work.” 

“Why do you wanna know? So you can bring me little packed lunches during my break? Rub my shoulders a bit and make sure I’m not flirting with too many girls at the office?” It’s a joke to stall for time, think over whether he _should_ tell Niall or not. 

“Why else?” Niall grins. “And you work at an office. Right. Well that narrows it down a _whole_ lot.” 

“’Course I work at an office. Why else would I go dressed in my ‘funeral’ suit?” Louis snorts and Niall smiles a bit at the memory. 

“Makes sense, yeah. So where do you work, then?” 

“Campton building in town,” Louis mutters after a small pause. 

“Whoa, you work for _Joseph Campton_? He’s a real big, rich fella, isn’t he?” 

Then he looks at Louis kinda funny, like he’s waiting for money to suddenly spurt from ears. 

“Yeah, but it’s only a small office job. Like, in the lowest levels of the building and everything,” Louis says hurriedly. “Pay is good and all but not…not crazy or anything.” 

Niall just smiles at him. Not even looking where he’s going as he walks. It’s cold enough that his breath is coming out in wispy little puffs again, cheeks flushed and tip of his nose red. The sun has set completely now, only light being the stars and moon half-hidden behind growing grey clouds. And, of course, the streetlights. Which turn Niall’s hair gold.

“That’s so cool,” Niall says with sincerity. Then he chuckles, shakes his head a little. “I work at a cinema and you work for bloody _Joseph Campton_.” 

“It’s not much, really,” Louis reminds him. “And there’s nothing wrong with working at the cinema. You’re looking for a second job too, aren’t you? And then you’re planning to study. _I’m_ impressed.” 

He remembers too late that Niall has never directly told him that he’s planning on studying, that he only overheard Niall telling Liam that once when he came over and Louis was locked away in his room. 

A flicker over confusion crosses over the other boy’s face, only brief, quickly replaced with a truly flattered expression that makes Louis feel a little odd. 

“That was touching, Louis, really. Just beautiful.”

Louis shoves him because he’s taking the mick and Niall laughs as he stumbles. 

“Shut up, you idiot. This is why I don’t tell you nice things,” Louis snaps. 

“No, really, I appreciate it.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” 

 

As Louis lays in bed late that night, thinking about the way Niall had looked at him in the café, he hears the other boy get up. As usual, walking around the flat, not doing anything that Louis can make out. Louis knows that he should still be suspicious, that he should still be watching Niall closely. Waking up so late for no distinguishable reason _is_ very questionable behaviour. 

But all he thinks of as he drifts off to sleep is the amount of full conversations he’s had with Niall. Trying to go over them, to list them, number them. 

Sleep consumes him just as it becomes apparent that he’s lost count.


	8. The Estate

Harry’s flat always feel so homey. With the comfy couches and the wooden furniture, shaggy rug over the honey floorboards. Zayn nestled in his usual corner of the lounge, scrolling through his Facebook newsfeed on his phone. Liam warming up some left-over pasta, humming to himself. 

Niall always likes it here. He and Harry are half-watching the TV from the small, round dining table, and though they left conversation behind a couple minutes ago there’s still an abundance of noise, no awkward silence filling the air. 

“You heading out soon?” Liam asks, question directed at Niall, once the pasta is done and he’s settled on the chair next to Harry, hot bowl in his hands. 

“Yeah, got another job interview,” Niall replies without shifting his gaze from the TV screen. Some cooking show is on and it’s kind of addicting. 

“Oh, so that’s why you’re dressed up all nice,” Zayn says from the couch, craning his neck to look at him. “I thought it was because you wanted to take me out somewhere fancy.” 

“Yeah, you wish, Malik,” Niall sniggers. “Didn’t even want to come _here_ but Harry called up wanting his stupid DVD back or whatever.” He sneaks a glance at the younger lad. “Stupid git.” 

“Hey, you’re the one that hadn’t seen _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_. I mean, everyone’s seen that,” Harry argues, sneaking a forkful of pasta from Liam’s bowl.  
“Don’t know why you needed it back all of a sudden, though.” 

“Got a girl coming over.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows. “Did you watch it in the end?” 

“Yeah, Louis and I did.” 

“How romantic,” Zayn deadpans and Niall laughs, tinged red around the edges. 

“I better get going,” he says, getting to his feet, chair scraping against the floor. “Good to see you lads.” 

“Tell us how the interview goes,” Liam says. 

“Of course.” 

 

The car pulls in, sleek and shining black in the sunlight. Suited men are there to greet it, open the doors and lead the occupants inside. 

From where Louis sits, hidden behind a ledge covered in bushes, he has a pretty good shot, a height advantage, since the estate has been built on hilly ground, all he needs is the audacity. The follow through. But he knows this isn’t the right time, that they’ve already planned when to go in. So he watches until everyone is inside before settling back against the ledge. Stiffening when he hears scuffling footsteps until Ross comes into view, takes a seat opposite him. 

“Now we just gotta wait,” Ross says, resting his wrists on his knees, gun in his hands. Louis just nods. 

He’s only been on a couple of jobs with Ross, usually working the hits alone, but he likes him. Ross is stockily built, buzzed fair hair, like someone you’d find in the army. His face is kind, though, friendly. And he always surprises Louis, speaking so sensitively when they’re not on the job, ruthless when they’re making a hit. Like someone flitches a switch, turning him from nice guy to killing machine. 

“I always think of my girl,” Ross is telling him, squinting past Louis’s shoulder to watch the front of the estate. “Right before I go in.” 

A frown cuts along Louis’s face, turns his lips and furrows his eyebrows. Ross was there when the boss told them to not have anyone too close to them, he should know that he’s not allowed to have a girl. 

Ross seems to notice the expression, read Louis’s thoughts. 

“I don’t see her much,” he adds. “She lives out of town. But I always think of how I need to do this for her, you know? Keep on going because she’s sick and we need this money.”

He sighs deeply and Louis averts his gaze, hopes Ross isn’t going to expect an explanation of why _he_ got into this job. 

“Do you ever think of anyone?” Ross asks and this question isn’t much better. But Louis answers anyway, simply because he wants Ross to know that he actually took in the boss’s words. 

“No.” 

The word hangs in the air a bit, firm and sharp. And Ross nods, scratches the back of his neck and stares at his gun. But then Louis does something stupid, unexpected.

“I sometimes think about whether or not my flatmate has lit the house on fire,” he rambles, and it’s literal word vomit spewing from his mouth. “He’s hardly ever there but when he is, he always makes a right mess of things. And he tries cooking, too. All the time now because he suddenly thinks he can. But he can’t and one day I’m gonna come home and watch the house go down in flames, the smoke smelling like bloody blueberry muffins.” 

Ross chuckles softly and Louis falls silent in surprise, horror, wondering where on earth all that came from. 

Before Louis can try to amends, apologize for horrible gush of nonsense that he just exposed Ross to, the estate un-stills and they hear movement coming from the front doors. Louis spins around quickly, shifting onto his knees and watching as a large group of suited people exit the doors, walk down to the long car. Ross joins him, two of them waiting until everyone is packed away in the vehicle, engine started and tires disrupting the dusted drive way. 

Then they move. Crouching, each footstep calculated and careful. Ross heads around the back and Louis goes in from the side. Reaching a large, clean window and prying it open. Slipping inside and finding himself in a large study. 

The basement is their target. Where the money is kept. The estate should be nearly empty, as the occupants have all headed out for a large gathering at god knows where.  
Well, that was what Ross had managed to find out anyway, had told Louis in wilting confidence, forced to believe so because if they came up with nothing the boss would kill them. 

And as footsteps sound outside the room, match the thumping of Louis’s heart, he realizes that they were wrong. He can hear voices, coming closer, towards the study, and he is quick to slip back outside the window, duck into small, scratchy bushes situated beneath the sill. 

“Fuck,” he mutters as he hears people enter the study, close the doors behind them and settle on the plush white couches. He can hear them talking but can’t make out any of the words and this is so annoying because it’s pushing the whole plan back. He just hopes that Ross got inside without any problems. 

 

Half an hour later and Louis is still in the bushes. He could have finished the bloody mission by now and the leaves are irritating his skin. He’s tempted to move, to find some other way in, but he knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to do it soundlessly. The window is still open, and he can hear someone sitting right near it. If he moves, he’s caught. And if he’s caught, he’s dead. 

Nothing has happened. No signs of Ross, the people in the study are talking about sports. Louis never thought he’d find himself bored on a mission. Incidentally, his mind begins to drift. To his money, to Niall. Quickly pushing those two things away (surprised that the second one came to him so quickly) Louis tries to think about Harry. His best mate. He thinks about something stupid they did in high school, for no other reason than to amuse himself. To pass the time. To not think of anything else. He can see himself in the school gym, watching as Harry tries to impress one of the girls sitting by the wall on the other side. Attempting to slam dunk the ball into the hoop. Which, considering his height, he should be able to do. But his coordination needs some work, tripping over his feet just as he begins to jump, falling short. Landing on his face. 

Louis, watching on the sidelines with a couple other friends, bursts out into the laughter. Louis now, hidden in the bushes, smiles to himself. 

But then something odd happens, something that hasn’t happened when he’s thought back to this moment before. One of the friends in the memory turns to him, and he’s laughing really loudly. And it’s really familiar. Louis tries to see his face but it’s as though the memory forgot to remember that part. He can’t comprehend it, looking at the face and not really seeing anything at all. 

He can hear the boy’s laughter loud and clear, ringing in his ears. And he can see hair. Blonde but glinting gold. 

“BREACH!” 

A loud shout from inside the study startles Louis out of his thoughts, followed by a loud, piecing siren. Wailing throughout the estate.  
Louis jumps to his feet without thinking, realizing that Ross must have gotten into the basement and triggered an alarm. He hits his head on the frame of the opened window with a sickening crack. Biting his tongue to stop himself from crying out, tasting blood. 

“There’s someone outside!” 

Louis tries to whip around, knowing that whoever said that was referring to him, but his head swims when he tries to move it. Black dots and silver stars clouding his vision. 

_Shit._

Gunshots. 

Glass shatters as the bullets hit the window, like rain falling at his feet. Louis ducks, fumbles for his own gun (which really shouldn’t be happening because the gun is in his _hand_ ). But he struggles with the intense pain in his head, like his skull has been fractured right down the middle. Burning and stinging and searing. He can’t function properly. 

Through all this panic, all this pain, as he forces his shaking limbs to move away from the window, Louis thinks that he’s just saved Ross’s ass. Providing a distraction for him, allowing him to get out while he can. He hopes his colleague doesn’t waste it. 

“Don’t let him get away!” someone shouts as Louis finds the ability to run. Blindly sprinting in the direction he think he came from. 

_Thuds_ sound behind him, people dropping into the bushes under the window. 

_Shit shit shit._

Louis turns around, fires some shots behind him. Vision blurred, unable to see his targets. 

“You’re dead, asshole!” 

The shout is accompanied with the loud sound of a gunshot, like a crack of thunder splitting open the air, and Louis lets out a cry of pain as the bullet finds his left shoulder.  
The struggle to stay upright as pain blinds him is almost too much to fight against. Louis stumbles, left arm hanging limply by his side. Almost immediately, one of the men catch up to him, grabbing at the back of his shirt. 

On auto-pilot, mind numbed with an ache that has consumed him, Louis fends off his attacker. Using his right arm to push the man off, firing shots once he is freed. More catch up to him, and he does it over again. Still attempting to run, to keep himself upright. 

It becomes too much. 

Eventually, one of the men manage to bring him down. He falls roughly onto the grass, fumbling with his gun as the man lands on top of him. Almost straddling him as he hits him with punch after punch, hitting his face until his nose bleeds. Jaw engulfed in a flame that stretches up to his temples, across his eyes until they sting with tears. He can’t feel his shoulder any more, vision blurred as he gets his gun out and fires a shot.  
A hollow _click_ follows his finger pressed tightly against the trigger. Empty. 

He wills himself to feel nothing. 

“You’re after the money, huh?” the man spits, kind enough to hold his fist back until he’s finished speaking to allow Louis to hear him. He punches Louis’s jaw and Louis can already feel the bruise swelling. 

He makes a half-assed attempt to push the man off him but he’s not even sure if he’s entirely conscious anymore. Maybe he should just accept his fate. He is going to die on the prickly lawn of the estate, underneath the heavy weight of a sweaty man in a nice suit. All because his partner couldn’t do his _fucking job_ properly. 

Right now might be the time to think about those things he pushed out of his mind earlier, maybe he should reflect on his life, make some last minute attempt to connect with God so he at least gets a nice place in heaven or wherever the hell he’s going after this. 

And he’s about to do just that, eyelids closing, man’s knee crushing his ribs, when he hears the musical sound of a gunshot, captures the picturesque image of a bullet driving itself into the skull of the man on top of him. Blood splattering and body falling limp. 

The sound of footsteps roaring in his ears, a scuffed pair of boots stopping by his head. 

Ross, hot gun in hand and suitcase tucked under his arm, has just saved him. 

Louis takes back what he thought about him before. 

“Jesus, mate, you alright?” Ross asks, face contorting as he studies Louis’s bloodied form. 

Obviously not. But Louis can’t speak. He’s slipping, falling out of something. Reality. His mind. Life. 

It all goes black at the edges, only half aware of Ross pulling him off the ground, hooking an arm around his neck. 

“Do I take you to a hospital?” Ross questions as he drags Louis across the lawn, sounding desperate and panicky. “Come on, Louis, don’t black out on me. Is it safe to send you to the hospital?” 

Using the scarcest tendril of energy that is clinging to consciousness, Louis manages an answer of, “No.” 

It sounds more like the croak of a dying animal, which really isn’t too far off the truth, but Ross somehow catches it. 

“Right. Right, okay. Where do I take you? To the boss? Gotta go there anyway, right? To give him the money.” 

Ross is quick on his feet, even with the added weight of Louis and the suitcase, they have almost made it back to the car.

Louis can feel his whole body going numb, mind letting go of whatever he had been attempting to hold on to. 

“Home,” is all Louis can say. And then he’s gone.


	9. The Turmoil

“Are you sure you’re alright, mate?” Ross asks, pulling the car up two blocks from Louis’s flat, because Louis is stubborn and overly paranoid about people knowing where he lives.  
Outside, the sun has disappeared over the horizon, leaving a sky of lulled grey, tinged black like charcoal speared over a dusty pavement. Stars beginning to appear here and there, brightening the more the seconds tick on. 

Louis can’t remember the drive here. Passed out in the back seat, occasionally seeing a growing light behind his eyelids, reds and yellows stretching in front of him before the light was devoured by darkness. 

He woke up no more than ten minutes ago, with Ross confessing that he only had a general idea of where he was going. 

“If that,” Ross had said. “Could you tell me where you live?” A furtive glance in the rear-view mirror. “And are you sure you don’t need any help…? I mean, you’ve just bled all over my back seat.” 

Ross had been kind enough to strap up his bullet wound with a make-shift bandage, but it wasn’t really doing much. An old t-shirt he’d dug up from the thick layer of junk on the car floor, now soaked red and in desperate need of a change. 

“I’m fine,” Louis had replied tensely. Which wasn’t true. “Just get me home.” 

He’d given him a fake address, and Ross had seemed to immediately sense that – though, thankfully, said nothing – and now they’re sitting out in front of a small family house with a chair swing in the front yard and Louis is dreading the walk home. 

“Thanks, mate,” Louis says, kicking open the old car door and pushing himself onto the footpath – wincing as he accidently applies pressure on his right arm. 

“Yeah, that’s alright. Just don’t go dying on me,” Ross says, watching him. 

“Don’t go setting off anymore alarms,” Louis retorts. And he doesn’t mean to be snappy but he feels like he’s been run over by a bus over and over again. 

 

The walk home is uneventful, and, on account of his constant need to stop and catch his breath, takes a lot longer than it should. By the time he can see the familiar grey roofing of the flat, the sky is completely dark and the air has turned frigid. 

The front door seems impossibly heavy with his meagre energy levels, left side of his body slumped against the carved wood as he forces it to swing open. 

A dark house greets him as he stumbles inside, ready to collapse on the couch but knowing that he needs to tend to his wounds. He drops his house keys clumsily, hearing the metallic chink of them falling to the floor but not bothering to pick them up. The pain has flared up again, the sweet numbness that came with unconsciousness now stripped away with his alert mind and moving body. It makes hard it hard to think of anything else. 

Which is why seeing Niall Horan sitting on the couch is such a surprise. 

_Of course_. Louis should have thought about it earlier. The fact that Niall could be home, that he might have to face him with a _bullet wound in his shoulder_. But it appears that some drained part of his mind decided that that was not important, no need to worry, figured that Niall was likely not to be home anyway. 

Louis chooses to ignore the thought that maybe he wanted it be this way. Because, right now, all he wants it to sleep for ten years. He doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions, the worried look on Niall’s face, the idea that he might have to actually tell Niall what’s going on. 

The TV is on, loud, casting weird shadows around the room, flashing colours against the white walls. Niall looks over as soon as the front door slams shut, squinting through the dull light as though he can sense something is wrong immediately. The way Louis is standing, hunched and slightly limp, maybe he can see the bloodied bandage on his arm even through the dark, the bright screen must be emitting a strange effect on his swollen face. 

“Holy…” Niall begins, getting to his feet. “Louis…are you…?” 

He steps closer, face contorting in horror as he takes it all in. Louis feels panic rising up in his throat, swallowed thickly with desperation to get away. He begins to shuffle over to the bathroom. 

“Shit,” Niall breathes, following his movements with wide eyes, moves even closer. “Fucking hell…what the…Louis what the hell happened to you?” 

Louis opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, but the same helpless feeling he felt back in the estate overwhelms him and he feels himself falling forwards. 

“Whoa.” Niall grabs him by the left shoulder and right elbow, careful of the wound, as Louis sways. “You need…I need to call an ambulance. Louis you need some serious help, a doctor.” 

“No,” Louis says quickly, and it sounds strangled. He clears his throat, mind half occupied by the fact that the skin beneath Niall’s palm burns just as ferociously as his surely broken nose. “I don’t need a doctor, I can fix myself up…” 

He tries to pry himself from Niall’s grip, continue on his way towards the bathroom, but Niall doesn’t let him go. 

“Seriously, Louis, you can’t do this by yourself. I’m calling an ambulance, okay? You look dead, Louis, seriously. You’re scaring the hell out of me.” 

He most definitely _looks_ scared, panic and concern clouding his blue eyes. Louis shakes his head firmly, managing to pull away and again starting towards the bathroom. 

“Please, Niall, don’t. I’ll be alright.” Even as he says that he trips over his own feet, caught by Niall once again. 

“At least let me have a look at it,” Niall says, chewing his lip as he helps Louis into the bathroom. Feeling around the cold walls for the light switch. They both wince horribly as the bulbs flicker to life. 

Niall sets him down on the closed toilet seat, steps back, and gets a proper look at him. 

“ _Christ_ …” he mutters, eyes flickering over Louis’s features. They divert to his arm. “You’re bleeding to death!” 

And then there’s a flurry of Niall pulling out medical supplies kept in the bottom drawer, fussing and worrying and asking Louis questions he doesn’t answer. Carefully, Niall pulls the old t-shirt off the wound and stares in sinking, horrible recognition at the bullet wound. 

“You were shot,” he whispers, trembling fingers coming up to brush the blood encrusted skin. Louis watches him, feeling as though he’s not really not in _there_ , as though he’s left his body. Pain does funny things to the mind. 

“Yeah,” is his reply. 

Niall begins to clean the blood away, ensuring he’s incredibly gentle, but Louis grits his teeth all the same. 

“Sorry,” Niall says when Louis lets out a hiss. “I still think we should see a doctor…” 

We. It sticks with Louis for a moment before he shakes his head. 

“No. That can’t happen.” 

Niall dabs the wound with antiseptic wipes and Louis grips the legs of his pants tightly. 

“The bullets not in there,” Niall says after a few moments. He gazes at the wound a moment, looking lost in his head, before he opens his mouth and his breath catches in the way it does before he speaks. He stops abruptly, clamping his mouth shut, absentmindedly swiping his thumb across the skin of Louis’s arm under the small bullet-sized hole.  
It’s a strange feeling, the soft tickle of Niall’s skin brushing against his, a stark contrast to the fire that engulfed and consumed his entire body. 

“Is it because you’re doing something illegal?” Niall asks finally, the words rushed and jumping over each other. He glances up at Louis through his eyelashes before quickly diverting his gaze. Regretting what he said immediately, but knowing that there’s no going back, he fumbles over an explanation instead. “I mean, you had the gun and you were all shifty about your room and I’ve seen you come home looking a little beat up before. I, I won’t, like, judge you or anything for it…I mean…I, um, It’s none of my business…”

The words leave a ringing sound in their absence, hanging in the air where they cling desperately, beg for Louis’s attention. So that’s it. Niall is on to him. Knows something, has suspicions. The ringing grows louder. 

Niall begins on the bandage, working in silence for a moment with Louis continuing to watch him blearily, occasionally asking if it’s too tight. 

To tell or not to tell? That _should_ be the question. But Louis is still struggling to grasp on to reality, still feeling as though he is watching this whole scenario outside of his body. Occasionally brought back by the softness of Niall’s touch, or the sharpness of his eyes, but mostly he’s falling. Everything a blur, rushing up around him. 

And so it’s kind of hurried, and not at all thought through when he finally speaks up. 

“I’m a hitman.” 

Niall freezes, bandage half done, now gripped tightly in his hands, before he rocks back slightly on his heels and looks up at him. 

He holds Louis’s gaze and it holds Louis _here_ , holds his wandering mind in his body, holds him on to reality. 

“Would it be weird to say _I knew it?_ ” Niall says. The shock Louis feels at that statement must register on his face because Niall continues with, “I guess so. It would probably be better to say _I had a feeling_. Strange one at that. I thought it was my imagination getting ahead of itself.” 

He finishes on the bandage, and it’s slightly satisfying feeling the slight pinch at his skin, see the clean, white, untouched fabric against his arm. Niall begins cleaning away the cuts on Louis’s face, muttering about how he needs to ice the swelling, and Louis uses that as an excuse not to say anything. 

Niall _knew it_. Niall had had suspicions about him. It’s funny to think about, really. As Louis lay awake at night and wondered whether he was actually living with an enemy, the boy on the other side of the wall was awake and pondering over the thought of living with a murderer. 

It raises the question once more of _why on earth_ Niall is still living with him. After all that, the incident with the gun, the fact that Niall could tell Louis was coming home injured, the fact that he guessed Louis was a hitman, he stayed. 

_Why?_

There’s a sweet silence filling the air, disturbed only by the rhythmic sound of Niall breathing, the laboured sound of air wheezing from Louis’s swollen nostrils. Dripping of the tap, hollow and echoic as droplets hit a filled basin. Niall dabbing a clean rag into the cool water and cleaning away the blood. The pain, like fire against liquid, and Niall’s soft touch under his chin, keeping his head tilted up at him, keeping him grounded. 

Something has lifted within Louis, different to the drifting feeling he feels within his mind. This can be found in his chest, as though a tight grip has released his lungs and he can breathe. 

The secret. He kills people for a living. Steals money. A hitman. It’s escaped him, out of the air, caught up by Niall and now shared between them. 

It helps in the silence, helps Louis feel nothing but Niall, hear nothing but the soft, musical sounds of the room. Everything light and slightly giddy. Maybe he’s going mad.

After a while, Niall leaves the room to get ice and Louis gazes numbly at nothing. The sweet silence gone, ripped away with the sudden rush of his thoughts, darker ones, cruel and crushing. As though Niall’s presence had been keeping them away, acting as a dam that has now broken. And suddenly everything seems to be happening all at once, his head is spinning, he’s slipping away again.

He presses his fingertips against the wound on his shoulder and the pain brings him back, but it also makes his vision go dark. 

Afraid that he’ll fall, he slides off the toilet seat and crawls into the corner of the bathroom, up against the old bath. Staring at the bathroom door, the dirty white tiles and mouldy shower curtain. Niall hurries in moments later, puzzled for a moment when he sees that Louis isn’t where he left him. 

“Hey, you alright?” he asks, raising his voice, kneeling before him. Louis realizes that his own eyelids are fluttering closed. Open, closed, open, closed. All he can see is darkness and then the boy in front of him. “You alright? Louis, say something.” 

Niall has done his hair in that styled messy kind of way he does when he goes out. Fingers combing then scrunching, then carefully flattening it all down. Probably stared at himself in the soapy mirror, smeared with toothpaste, as he worked the dirty-blonde locks to ruffled perfection. His eyes are wide, blue glistening with the orange glow of the bathroom and something else. Worry. Concern. Neither seems strong enough to describe the emotion swimming in the two, round oceans. Cheeks slightly red, teeth worrying over his bottom lip. Hands cold and slightly trembling, Niall shakes Louis’s leg gently. His mouth is moving but everything sounds as though Louis is hearing it all from underwater.  
He wonders why Niall had been home, then. He looks dressed up. Nice shirt, ironed pants. It looks as though he was ready to go out. Or maybe he’s already been out. Had he mentioned that he was doing anything today? Louis can’t remember. Pain makes the mind do funny things. He wants to think that Niall was up waiting for him. 

But he probably wasn’t. He probably had plans, had been watching a movie, doing something important when Louis barged in. 

“Louis?!” Niall says, the word breaking through the thick encasing of exhaustion weighing Louis down. 

Louis opens his mouth, watching the way Niall’s hair glints gold in the lighting and the way he can see small freckles and moles dotted across his pale skin when the boy leans forwards and he begins to say ‘thank you,’ but underneath the trickle of sleep like liquescent lead in his mind, the heaviness of eyelids, the ever present ache of his wounds, the words sound more like, ‘you’re beautiful.’


	10. Eight Months Earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this earlier but I've been so busy recently. and i went to their concert this week and it was so amazing there was so much nouis omg

“If I catch it in my mouth, you gotta give me ten bucks.” 

A snort erupts from Louis’s co-worker, Thomas, as Marcus pushes back from his desk, wheels of his office chair sliding across the carpet, and opens his mouth. 

“Ten bucks?” Thomas repeats with a shake of his head. “Mate, isn’t the satisfaction of catching it enough?” 

“Just throw it,” Marcus says, stretching his mouth wide, head tipped back. Thomas digs into the bag of jellybeans on his desk and throws one in Marcus’s direction. His aim is off by a bit, causing Marcus to lurch out of his chair sidewards in a small dive, landing roughly on the floor. 

Louis and Thomas burst out laughing, quickly covering their mouths with closed fists, as Marcus straightens up, pulls himself back on his seat, chewing the jellybean triumphantly. 

“Ten bucks,” he tells Thomas. 

For Louis, this is a fairly typical day at the office. On the third floor of the Campton Building, a wide room with walls of windows looking out onto the city, and desks covering almost every inch of the musty blue carpet. Thomas works at the desk across the aisle from Louis, they both face the back of the room, where a sea of people dressed in crisp work uniforms separate them from the large clock that sits above the glossy wooden door. Marcus works on a desk in front of Thomas, facing the opposite way. 

Phones are ringing, people are chattering in the clipped, firm tones they take on whenever they enter the building, and Louis and his colleagues are goofing off. 

Well, really, Louis has already gotten all his work done. The perks of having nothing to do when he’s home. And it’s nearing five anyway, everyone is getting a bit restless. 

“Alright, your turn, Louis,” Marcus says, reaching over to Thomas’s desk and snatching up the bag of sweets. 

“Throw three at once,” Louis grins, pushing back from his desk. “If I catch them all, you gotta give me _twenty bucks_.”

“If you catch them all, I’ll give you my bloody house,” Marcus says and Thomas sniggers. 

“You’re on,” Louis replies.

He’s opening his mouth, Marcus counting three jellybeans in his hands, when his pocket buzzes. It stops him abruptly, frowning as he looks down and pats his pants. He feels a jellybean hit his forehead. 

“Hey! You didn’t try to catch it,” Marcus says. 

“My phone’s ringing.” 

Louis pulls his mobile from his pocket and it vibrates in his hands, his sister’s name on the screen. The frown deepens as Louis swipes his thumb across the screen to answer it. Lottie knows better than to call him at work. 

“Hello?” he says, pressing the phone to his ear. Thomas and Marcus watch him a moment, before Marcus asks Thomas if he has any plans for the night and Thomas him he’s going to the cinema. 

“Isn’t the owner of that place horrible?” asks Marcus. Then he shrugs and bets Thomas fifty bucks he can catch ten jellybeans in his mouth at once. 

“Louis,” his sister greets him on the phone, sounding a little breathy. “Sorry, I know you’re at work but I just needed to speak to you.” 

She’s a little hard to hear over the sounds of office life around him, but Louis’s stomach sinks all the same. 

“Has something come up?” he asks, already dreading the answer. He glances over at his co-workers, trying to catch their attention, signal that he’s going to go outside. 

“Um, well, it’s nothing _bad_ or anything. Nobody’s died,” there’s a pause and Louis thinks that she goes for a laugh but he can’t hear her properly. He catches Thomas’s eye and the other lad nods. 

“It’s mum, though. She’s not…she’s not too great at the moment and I’m a bit worried about her,” Lottie continues as Louis gets up from his chair, begins to cross the room. 

“She’s not sick is she?” Louis asks, dodging another person walking along the aisle. He makes it to the front of the room and pulls the doors open. 

“No,” Lottie says. “Do you remember that guy she was dating? I think I told you about him before, when I called you a few months ago.” 

“The slightly creepy one?” Louis questions, jabbing the button for the elevator with his thumb. 

“Yeah,” Lottie’s laughs a little and this time Louis can hear it. “He was weird, had scary eyes. But mum seemed to really like him. Though I remember one time he came over for dinner and…” 

“Get to the point, Lottie,” Louis interrupts. His sister has a tendency to wander away from the current topic. 

“Right. Sorry. Well, I think she broke up with him today. She went out to lunch with him but she came home early. Burst through the door in tears. I mean _seriously_ sobbing. Screamed at us when we tried to ask her what was wrong. Freaked us all out, the twins started crying. Then she ran upstairs and locked herself in her room and has been up there for almost three hours. I think she’s thrown stuff around her room, and every so often we can hear shouting.”

Louis leaves the lift, crosses the lobby, and exists the building. It’s warm outside, a nice breeze ruffling his hair as Louis finds a quiet place to talk. There’s a fountain a little way to his left, with only a small child and their mother hanging around. He makes his way towards it. 

“None of us can talk to her,” Lottie explains. “She says she doesn’t want to speak to any of us. But I was hoping that I could give her the phone and you would try and talk some sense into her. She’s really scaring me.” 

“Yeah, of course,” Louis says. “Do you think she will talk to me though?”

“Well, I hope so. She’s really being missing you recently, so I think if there’s anyone she’ll talk to it’s you.” Lottie’s breathing grows slightly heavier and Louis guesses she’s began to move about the house. “It’s been a while since we last spoke, hasn’t it? And I – oh, wait. Someone’s at the door.” 

She goes quiet and Louis can hear a loud banging noise, so loud that it takes him a moment to realize it’s coming from the phone. It’s someone knocking at the door, forcefully, the sound like spikes of thunder. 

It makes Louis feel uneasy. 

“Lottie…” he begins to say, but he is cut off by a loud shout of, “Don’t open the door!” and the sound of loud footsteps on the stairs. 

His mother. 

“Mum?” Lottie sounds surprised. “Are you okay? What’s going on?” 

“Don’t open this door,” their mother repeats, breathless, almost crazed. Louis presses the phone even closer to his ear, trying to hear everything. The banging continues, growing even louder. 

“Lottie? What’s happening?” Louis asks. 

“I-I don’t know,” Lottie whispers. She lets out a small shriek. “It sounds like they’re trying to break the door down!” 

“Get away, Charlotte,” their mother says sternly. “Go get the other girls and head up stairs.”

“Mum…” 

There’s an extra loud bang and Lottie lets out another yelp, their mother yelling, “Go!” and Louis frantically pacing back and forth. 

“They’re opening the door, Mum! They’re opening the door!” Lottie cries, her voice suddenly sounding far away. Louis figures she’s lowered the phone from ear, panic rising in his throat. 

“Lottie? Lottie! What’s going on?” he begs. “Charlotte!” 

There’s a loud _crash_ , the door breaking open, a _thud_ , Lottie dropping the phone to the floor, and a scream, ripping through Louis’s skin. 

“Lottie!” 

The mother and child at the fountain cast him funny looks but Louis hardly notices. He’s listening to the horrific sounds coming from the phone’s receiver. His sister screaming, mother sobbing. The sound of scuffling, feet thundering against the floorboards, and a man’s voice. Deep and threatening. 

“Charlotte! Answer me!” Louis yells, heart pounding, her screams ringing in his ears. There’s a beat, a pause, where the man’s voice silences and it feels as though everyone has held their breath. 

And then he can hear the sound of the phone being lifted off the floor, ragged breathing against the receiver.  
“Lottie?” Louis asks hopefully. 

“I hope you’ve said you’re goodbyes,” a gravelly voice replies, sending a spike of fear along Louis’s skin, in his stomach like shards of glass. 

“Don’t hurt them,” Louis begs. He only realizes now that he has left the fountain, moving hurriedly along the pavement as though he can somehow get to his family. 

The man doesn’t say anything. Louis hears another thud, the phone being dropped back onto the floor. 

Then he hears a scream, two screams. His mother and sister. 

Screaming until he is sure his ears will bleed. 

 

“NO!” 

“Louis! Louis, can you hear me?” 

“Don’t hurt them! _PLEASE DON’T HURT THEM_!” 

“It’s alright, Louis.” 

“Please.” 

“Louis. Wake up.” 

Body writhing, pain sharp in his shoulder, Louis’s eyes flutter open. Sunlight blinds him, burns his eyes and he quickly lifts his left hand to cover his face. Waits a moment to let his eyes adjust, listens to the heavy breathing of another presence. There’s a hand on his arm, gentle but sturdy. Holding him down. 

“Louis.” 

Niall. He breathes out the name in relief, soft and whispery. Louis drops his hand, stomach jittery, sweat clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“You’re awake.” 

Louis is awake. It takes him a moment to register that fact. He hadn’t realized he’d been asleep. Standing by the fountain with flecks of water spraying his face seemed so real. It always does, when he closes his eyes and he sees it. Hears his sister’s voice. Because it is not a dream. But a memory. 

Louis tries to push it all away, to focus on what is happening right now. He’s in bed, sunlight sneaking in through gaps of his curtain, seeming so bright after spending so much time in darkness. 

That thought makes Louis start. How long was he asleep? How did he get to his bed? Trying to think back to the last thing he can remember, he is fairly sure that he passed out on the bathroom floor. He tries to remember more, but all he can see is a boy sitting in front of him with his hair glinting gold. 

Niall. His hand is still on Louis’s arm and when he removes it, Louis feels cold, feels it’s absence more than the pain in his shoulder. He looks over and sees that Niall is sitting next to him on the bed, legs crossed with a bowl in his lap, hair messy and slightly greasy. As though he’s been continuously running his fingers through it. Niall meets his gaze with tired eyes, darkly ringed and droopy. But there’s some light within all the blue. Relief. 

Niall opens his chapped lips, ready to speak, but it is at that moment that it really hits Louis. That he realizes that _Niall Horan_ is in his room. And it jolts him, thoughts stripped away from the situation and buried under the mattress with his carefully counted cash. 

“What are you doing here?” Louis blurts, attempting to sit up, to move away. He winces in pain and Niall’s eyes widen. 

“Careful,” he says, gently trying to push Louis back down. “You’re hurt.” 

“You can’t be in here,” Louis continues, ignoring him. He shakes Niall off and hoists himself up so he’s sitting, leaning against the headboard. “Get out of my room.” 

Niall pulls away, doesn’t say anything. He’s giving Louis that _look_ , as though he’s reading thoughts within Louis’s mind. Louis struggles to meet his eyes, fretting over whether any of the money is visible, whether he left his gun out, whether Niall can see the bloodied stains on his clothes…

“It’s alright, Louis,” Niall whispers, nothing but earnest and sincere. 

Louis can feel his body go slack as he remembers. _Niall knows_. Louis told him, said the word out loud. Niall knows he’s a murder, a thief. Niall knows and he’s still here. Not angry, or scared. But concerned. Worried. 

Louis shrinks against the pillows, stares at the ceiling. He’s hear the sound of water being disturbed, Niall dipping a clean rag into the small bowl on his lap. Without saying anything, Niall begins to carefully dab away the sweat from Louis’s forehead. 

“How long was I asleep?” asks Louis quietly. He feels overwhelmed, snippets of his return home coming back to him one by one. He can see Niall sitting on the couch, and his hands on Louis’s skin, the way he looked when he recognized the bullet wound. 

“Three days,” Niall replies, voice soft. 

Louis’s chest tightens. _Three days_. What had happened to Ross? Had his boss tried to contact him? And Niall…what had Niall done? Had he tried to call anyone?

The water is cool against Louis’s skin, dabbing away at the sweat and grime that Louis feels covers every inch of him. Every now and then Niall’s breath with catch and Louis knows that he has something to say, despite the fact that he is determinedly trying not to look at him, but Niall doesn’t speak. 

“Three days,” Louis repeats when the silence becomes unbearable, unable to lay there with only his anxious thoughts. Niall gently sweeps away a strand of Louis’s hair with his fingers, brushing against his forehead. Louis’s whole body stills. 

“I was worried you wouldn’t wake up,” Niall admits. His voice trembles with an emotion he tries to suppress, swallow down. When Louis sneaks a glance at him, Niall is looking at his hands. When Niall looks up, Louis stares at the ceiling. 

“Can you remember anything?” Niall asks. Louis looks at him again, can’t help it, and Niall meets his gaze almost timidly. Cheeks flushed and body suddenly hunched. 

“Most of it,” Louis says. “I remember getting shot. I remember standing in the lounge-room with you. And you bandaging my arm in the bathroom.” 

Louis looks down at his wound now, half expecting to see the same bandage still there, bloodied and sunken into his skin. But he sees that his arm has been put in a sling, fresh and white as the bandage wrapped nicely beneath it. 

“I made sure to change it when it got dirty,” Niall tells him. “But I think I got a bit paranoid and changed it a bit too much. I just needed something to do, you know? I didn’t like just sitting there, waiting.” 

For some reason, this surprises Louis, and he asks, “You’ve been here the whole three days?” 

Niall matches his bewildered expression, answering with, “Where else would I be?” 

Louis can’t find an answer, opening his mouth to nothing but silence. Niall has gone a bit red again, scratching at his ear. But his eyes seem determined, sticking with what he said. 

“What about work?” Louis asks finally. 

“Called in and got time off,” Niall replies, almost nonchalantly. “And I don’t start my new job until next week.” 

“Wait, you’re new job?” Louis echoes. Niall looks a little surprised, then he smiles slightly. 

“You just woke up from a small coma and we’re talking about my _job_.” 

He dips the rag back into the water, shaking his head. Louis just watches him, waiting for him to continue. 

“I got it the day you were shot. I was actually waiting for you to get home so we could celebrate like last time, you know, TV and ice-cream. But then, well, you know the rest.” He shrugs, dabbing the rag back against Louis’s face, along his jaw, down his neck. 

“Did you…did you speak to anyone?” Louis says after a small pause. “These last three days?” 

“No,” Niall replies firmly. “No one.” 

It should be comforting to Louis. To know that Niall didn’t end up calling for an ambulance, or that his boss didn’t send Ross round to look for him. But it makes him feel a little sad. A small lump in his throat as he realizes that Niall spent the last three days in the flat alone. Not knowing whether Louis was going to wake up. And not knowing whether he could go and get help. 

It is evident in Niall’s face that he hasn’t gotten much sleep. Louis studies the bags beneath his eyes as Niall leans over to check his bandage. Staring but unable to stop. Louis find himself taking in every freckle across Niall’s nose when the other lad helps him sit up properly, gives him a glass of water. Louis studies the way the trickles of sunlight catch in his bright blue eyes, in his hair. 

“Thank you,” Louis tells him, when he’s handing Niall his emptied glass and Niall is standing by the side of the bed. “You saved my life. You didn’t have to do any of this but…”

“It’s alright, Louis,” Niall cuts him off. “I…you would’ve done the same for me.” 

Louis wants to say more but he’s not sure what else to say. Instead, he pulls himself out of bed and takes a shower. Thinking that Niall is wrong. He could never have done what he did. That he’s not really sure whether that’s why Niall did it at all. 

 

“Louis? Have you seen my phone anywhere?” Niall calls from the lounge-room the following evening. Louis is in his room, laying on his bed, staring at nothing. He’s been thinking a lot about whether or not he should tell Niall more about himself. Mostly, he thinks that it’s a horrible idea. That he shouldn’t have said anything to Niall in the first place, though really he had been barely conscious when he’d let the truth slip from his mouth. But he can still hear his boss’s words and he’s scared. He’s scared of opening up. He’s scared of what he has to say. Not sure whether he should burden Niall with more of his life. 

But, still, Niall already knows that he’s a hitman. And so really couldn’t hurt to explain it a bit more, could it? Even if he just tells him about Ross and his boss and why he was so unfriendly when Niall first moved in. The only problem with that is the conversation will inevitably end up where he wants it least, with the question of _why_ Louis got into the job in the first place bearing itself before him. And that’s the _last thing_ he wants to talk about 

“Louis?” Niall calls, yelling over the noise from the TV. “You seen my phone?” 

Louis picks himself up off the bed, careful not to put any weight on his right arm, and shuffles out of his bedroom. Niall is pulling the cushions off the couch in frustration.

“I only had it a few hours ago!” Niall growls, kicking a cushion on the floor. 

“Did you have it in your room?” Louis asks, making Niall jump. He spins around to face Louis, looking surprised as he takes in Louis’s bleary eyes and ruffled hair. 

“Oh, man, were you asleep?” he frets. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. You didn’t have to get up…” 

“It’s fine,” Louis waves him off and heads towards Niall’s room. “I wasn’t sleeping. Let’s find this phone then, shall we?” 

Louis needs the distraction. He opens the bedroom door, greeted with a dark room smelling of dust. He mockingly gestures Niall in first, sweeping his arm and offering a small bow. Niall gives a curtsey and Louis laughs. 

“After you,” he says. 

Niall has to climb up on the bed for them both to fit, Louis standing on the small patch of carpet not covered by any furniture. He searches for the light switch and the bulb hums as it flickers to life, occasionally blinking, threatening to burn out for good. 

Niall searches through the blankets whilst Louis looks through the chest of draws. 

“It’s quite cramped, isn’t it?” Louis says, looking over at where Niall is half buried beneath the sheets. He stands back from the drawers and shuts the door before stretching his arms out either side of him. 

“Look,” Louis says. “I can’t even stretch my arms out all the way.” 

Niall, who had looked up when the door had closed, offers a small smile. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Did you find anything?” 

“Nope. Guessing you didn’t either?” 

Niall shakes his head and Louis sighs. 

“Well, it’s gotta be here somewhere.” Louis places his hand on the doorhandle and pushes it down. 

But it doesn’t move. 

Frowning, Louis puts more weight on it (a hard thing to do with him favouring his right arm) and tries again. But the doorhandle doesn’t budge. 

“Is everything alright?” Niall asks, crawling across the bed. 

Louis pushes against the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Nothing happens. He shoots Niall a worried look. 

“It’s locked.” 

Louis rattles the handle helplessly, turning around to face Niall. The blonde lad has gone still, staring at the door with a panicked expression.

“It can’t be,” he says, sounding small. “We didn’t lock it.” 

“Must’ve locked itself,” Louis shrugs. He pushes his body against it again, and then again, but it remains firmly closed. “Or it’s just stuck. This flat _is_ a piece of shit.” 

He tires after a few more tries and sits down on the edge of the bed. Niall curls up against the back wall, wrapping his arms around his knees. 

“It can’t be,” he repeats. “Try it again.” 

“Niall, I just did…” 

“Try it again!” 

The words escape Niall in a squeaky shout, body shaking as he meets Louis’s gaze with wide eyes, desperate. Louis studies him, feeling confused. Niall looks petrified, face paling, grey, with sweat beading on his forehead. He’s scared. _Really_ scared. And Louis has never seen him like this. He’s seen Niall look worried, and concerned, anxious. But not even when Louis had threatened him with a gun, has Niall actually look _terrified_. He had managed to turn the whole thing into an oddly casual exchange. 

It throws Louis off, as Niall curls in on himself. He’s not quite sure what to do. So he gets up and tries the door again. And again. But his aching body can’t take it anymore. And Niall has buried his face in his knees. 

“Niall? Are you alright?” Louis asks. He feels like moving closer but that also makes him feel a little strange. 

Niall looks up very slowly, eyes darting to the closed door before they meet Louis’s. 

“Have you got your phone?” he asks, as though Louis hadn’t said anything at all. He straightens, seems a little bit more like Niall. “Can we call someone?” 

Louis pats his pockets, pulls out his mobile phone. Niall’s face lights up. 

“Oh thank, god,” he sighs. “Can we call Harry?” 

Louis hesitates, stares at the phone in his hand. 

“No,” he replies, can see Niall’s face fall in his peripheral vision. The disappointment he sees makes him feel angry, though he’s probably more angry at himself for causing Niall to look like that, he can’t help snapping, “You _know_ we can’t, Niall.” 

He gestures impatiently to his injuries. Though all the swelling has gone down on his face, there’s still terrible bruises covering his skin. And then there’s his arm. Harry is bound to ask questions. 

“What about the fire brigade or something?” Niall asks. “Can we call the police? Do you have the number to the neighbour’s house…?” 

“No,” Louis cuts him off sharply. “The door will open, for god sake. We’re not calling the bloody _police_.” 

Then he shoves his phone back into his pocket, marches towards the door, and kicks it furiously. It doesn’t open. 

 

Niall has been silent for a full ten minutes, still curled up in the back corner, knees pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his knees. The light bulb continues to flicker ominously and Louis figures that there’s not long until it blows completely. 

Louis sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the door as though that will allow him to open it. He spins his phone in his hands, unsure of whether or not he should just call Harry. He will ask questions, but Louis has waved him off before. He just knows that his bruising looks _really_ bad, worse he’s ever gotten, and Harry will be worried. Persistent. 

There’s a loud hum, and then a small _pop_ and they are delved into darkness, the light bulb burning out. Louis jumps when it happens, as it drags him from his thoughts. But Niall does something worse. Something that tightens Louis’s chest and shoots him in the heart. 

He lets out a small sob. 

It’s eerie being in the pitch black, still being able to feel the pressing presence of the walls around them. It makes the air feel heavier. Though Louis doesn’t have much time to dwell, as he is suddenly worried for the other boy. 

“Niall?” he asks softly, fumbling with his phone, turning it on so the screen casts a green glow that does little but light up his own face. Louis turns around, directs it at Niall so he can see him. A pair of wide blue eyes blink at him. 

“Are you alright?” Louis says, can feel himself softening. He’s moving closer before he can stop himself, crawling across the bed until he’s sitting right next to Niall. Back against the wall, Niall’s arm brushing against his. Warm. 

“No,” Niall admits, and he lets out a watery laugh. “No.” 

“Here,” Louis hands him the phone. “You need the light more than me.” 

Niall takes it from him, the two of them staring at their hands, the way their fingers knock together. 

“Aren’t you scared?” Niall asks. 

“Not really.” 

Niall gazes at the phone, swipes his trembling fingers across the screen, looking at the different apps. Louis watches him, feels the way Niall shifts even closer. His arm pressed up right against Louis’s. 

“Louis?” he whispers. 

“Yeah?” 

“I, um, I’m claustrophobic. I’m terrible with small spaces, really. I,” his breath catches and he lets his head fall back against the wall. “I’m finding it hard to breathe.” 

Louis looks over at him in concern, Niall’s face lit by the unnatural glow of the phone, eyes closed and lips parted. There are tear stains on his cheeks. 

“Oh, god, Niall,” Louis says. “I’m so sorry. I…but…don’t you sleep in here every night?” 

Niall squeezes his eyes shut, edges of lips curling down in a wobbly frown as more tears spill. He raises a shaky arm to cover his face, wipe his eyes. 

“No,” he croaks. “I’m too scared. I sleep on the couch.” 

Something sharp presses into Louis’s throat. _Holy shit_. It hits him. That’s why Niall gets up every night. Sneaking out to sleep on the couch. On that lumpy old couch. Because he is terrified of his room. 

Louis feels _terrible_. 

“Niall,” he groans. “I’m so sorry. That’s so, terrible. Oh, god. I wish I had known.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Niall murmurs. He continues to wipe his eyes furiously, blinking and giving Louis a watery smile. “The couch isn’t that bad, honestly.” 

“You kidding me? I should throw that thing out. Hurts my ass if I sit on it too long.” 

Niall snorts. 

“You’re just whiny,” he teases. 

Louis laughs, glad that Niall is humouring him. It makes the denseness of the room feel more bearable. More comfortable. They seem to relax at the same time, sinking down until they are lying down, side by side, staring up into the black void above them. 

“Maybe you should go live with Harry,” Louis jokes. “He’ll take you in. Get you to sleep in his bed with him. He’s a cuddler, let me warn you now.” 

Niall laughs and Louis can feel the way his body shakes. He falls silent after a moment, it seems to drag on forever before Niall says, “I don’t want to live with Harry. I like it here.”

He’s not joking, sounding sincere. The sudden shift in mood is jarring, making Louis’s stomach flip over. 

“Harry’s flat always feels so homey,” Louis says, and he’s not sure why he feels compelled to convince Niall it’s better. Maybe he wants him to argue it’s not. “It’s ten times nicer. Got two bathrooms and everything. All this place has going for it is the TV.” 

“Yeah,” Niall says. “But this feels more like home, you know? And I’d go crazy living with Harry, and Zayn and Liam. I would feel like I wouldn’t have any space to think. And I…” he cuts himself off. Gives Louis a look as though he's gauging his reaction, trying to read his thoughts. He squints his eyes a little, then he changes the subject. Speaking slowly, carefully, “What do you remember about the night you shot?” 

Louis frowns. 

“Haven’t you already asked me that?” 

“Yeah.” Louis can feel Niall shrug. “I just…do you remember what you said to me? Right before you blacked out completely.”

Louis tries to think back, but that particular time is the hardest to remember. 

“I said…thank you, right?” 

“You really don’t remember?” 

“No. I do. I said thank you.” 

Louis feels pretty confident in that answer, nodding as though confirming it to himself. But then Niall giggles. He fucking _giggles_. And it does something funny to Louis. He hoist himself up on one arm, on his side, slightly leaning over Niall who is hiding a small smile behind his hand. 

“What?” Louis asks. Niall just shakes his head. “What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“What did I say?” 

Louis is smiling himself now. Feeling stupid but unable to stop himself. 

“You obviously didn’t mean it…I mean, you were barely conscious. It’s like when you say things when you’re drunk…so, you don’t have to worry about it,” Niall moves his hand and Louis can see the sly smile on his lips. 

"Was it something stupid?" Louis asks. 

"No," Niall says wily. 

"Was it something... _smart_ , then? Did I spout the works of Shakespeare?" 

Niall laughs loudly. 

" _I wish_ ," he sniggers. "But no." 

"Oh, come on, you're not going to make me guess are you? We could be here for hours." 

"I just wanted to see if you remembered it, that's all," Niall says, sounding coy but mischievous. Louis can't stand the little grin on the other lad's face, not sure why. It's doing funny things to him. 

"Just tell me." 

"Hmm..."

“Niall. Seriously. Tell me. You almost sound like you’re flirting with me right now,” Louis tells him, to try and throw him off. 

It seems to work, Niall turning red, blundering over his words when he blurts, “You told me I’m beautiful.” 

Then he clamps his lips together. 

Louis stills. Body locking into place. The words hitting him in the chest, yet ringing true. He can see it. The image of Niall swimming before his eyes as he’s pulled under. And…and he _did_ look kind of beautiful, in that dirty bathroom with his flushed cheeks and wide eyes. 

He then realizes how close they are, how they’re bodies are pressed together in the small bed, in the small room, and how he’s leaning over Niall. Their eyes meeting, breathing in unison. It’s almost hypnotizing. And Louis can feel himself leaning even closer, and Niall tips his head back…

_What the hell is he doing?_

Louis pulls back quickly, the question burning in his mind. Niall gazes up at him with heavily lidded eyes, reaching out and grabbing him by the shirt, tugging him down. 

“Niall...” Louis warns him. He puts an arm down to stop himself from leaning down even further, but his hand lands on the other side of Niall, right by his shoulder, so Louis is almost on top of him. 

“I, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, did you know?” Niall breathes, looking flustered. “The way you said it.” 

“Niall, I...” 

The words get caught in Louis’s throat as Niall touches his cheek lightly. He’s breathing so heavily, and his lips are parted, and he looking at Louis through his lashes, his hair ruffled and Louis just wants to stare at him, to memorize every detail. 

“It got me through those three days, while you were asleep,” Niall whispers, fingers tracing along Louis’s jaw. He hesitates. “Louis, could you...I...I want you to say it again.” 

Louis can feel his eyelids fluttering shut at Niall’s touch, but at the same time he’s thinking back to a thought he had while he was bleeding on the bathroom floor. Pain makes the mind do funny things. And, right now, as Niall is trapped in this room, he is feeling discomfort, torment. He’s scared. His emotions are running high. He’s doing this for a distraction, or because he’s feeling so many things at once that he can’t sort through each emotion properly. He doesn’t mean this...he just acting out of fear... 

“Louis,” Niall pleads, and Louis’s mind goes blank. 

“You’re beautiful.” 

Niall’s hand goes to back of his head, buries itself in his hair, and Louis leans down. Watching as Niall closes his eyes, bringing him closer. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Louis whispers again, against Niall’s lips. Then he presses against him, capturing Niall’s lips with his own. 

And Niall sighs deeply. 

As though Louis is a drug relieving the pain.


End file.
